


pushin' up daisies, wish they were roses

by callunavulgari



Series: Holiday Writing Challenge '12 [28]
Category: Homestuck, Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Crossover, F/F, Gen, POV Second Person, Post-Sburb/Sgrub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:52:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are seventeen years old and have just beaten a game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pushin' up daisies, wish they were roses

**Author's Note:**

> Day 28 of the Holiday Writing Challenge on tumblr [over here](http://giraffe-tier.tumblr.com/post/35469673249/winter-drawing-writing-challenge). Prompt was 'knitting'. My brain is so weird sometimes. This was mostly written so that Regina and Rose could have snarky, vaguely threatening conversations about magic and knitting needles. Yeah, I don't even know. Two powerful witches, man. I was intrigued.

“Your needles, young one,” she says to you, one perfect black brow arched regally. There’s a curl to her lips that is purely condescending—it makes you want to reach out and seize hold of your grimdark powers, because even if you’d only be able to speak in a language that no one on this earth understands, at least then you’d be able to wipe the smirk from her pretty red lips. “You knit?” she asks you.  
  
You snort.  
  
You are seventeen years old and have just beaten a game. Not any old game, but _the_ game. The game that you have been playing since you were thirteen years old and the world was not yet something you had to fight to get back; the game that has shaped you into who you are. The journey to this moment here has not been a pleasant one—you have lost loved ones along the way, and now, you find yourself further distanced from them. The explosion that ended the game was powerful, flinging those of you left through space time. You don’t even know if the others made it—if they’re somewhere on this earth or if they’ve ended somewhere else.  
  
You are not fond of Maine, and you are certainly not fond of the woman who found you outside of the town limits and made you accompany her to the hospital. You are above scoffing at her, so you sniff, mumbling something to the wind that makes the machines around you beep frantically and the dying plant beside you blossom once more.  
  
Her eyes widen, and you wonder if you were perhaps wrong. If you had not felt the familiar curl of magic drifting off her body in hazy mirage-like waves. Then she is hunkering down next to you, taking a fistful of the crappy hospital gown that the nurses had shoved over your head, and hissing, “You have magic?”  
  
There’s a hungry look in her eyes and oh— _oh_ , you think. Because she does not have magic, it has been lost to her, kept prisoner beneath her skin.  
  
You curl your own lip back at her, and though they aren’t painted like hers—they are dry and pale and flecked with blood that is possibly not yours—it gets the point across.  
  
You have lost your friends and you may or may not have saved the world—may have even created a new one in the process of saving the old—and you are unsure of _everything_ , but you know that you will not be cowed by an arrogant witch who is not even in possession of her own magic. “What are you?” she asks, her eyes narrowing.  
  
You narrow yours back and bare your teeth, feeling your voice shudder and rumble with unseen horror things when you speak. “The Seer of Light,” you hiss, and wonder if your skin is going dark, your hair bleeding white, because she rushes to close the curtains around you both, designer heels clicking on tile.  
  
“You will tell me what that is,” she tells you, towering over your bed and looking at you like you’re what you appear—a young, emaciated girl who was found wandering the woods with blood drenching her clothing, holding only a pair of knitting needles. There’s a hint of fear in her gaze, though, and you wonder what it would take to reach out, grab hold of her imprisoned magic, and _strangle her with it_.  
  
You give an experimental tug and she chokes, one hand going to her throat. Curiosity satisfied, you drop your hand. “I have faced far more powerful things than a witch playing dress up,” you tell her, amused with the way your voice crackles, syllables starting to roll strangely across your tongue.  
  
“Well, well, well,” she whispers, dark eyes fixed on your pale and broken hand. “It appears that there is more to you than there seems.”  
  
You smile, feeling eldritch monsters lurking in the back of your mind, clamoring for your attention—begging to be let free. You say nothing, watching as she creeps closer to you—going down to her knees at the side of your bed and pillowing her chin on folded hands. She’s still smirking at you, but it’s appraising now rather than insulting. “Well then, little witch,” she whispers. “What say you we make a deal?”  
  
You want to scoff at her, to fling your magic up in her face and prove that you’re nothing to be trifled with. But the temptation... finding Dave and Kanaya and the rest of your merry band of survivors? The temptation is enough to still your tongue, and you bite at it, tasting blood.  
  
You cock your head, an eyebrow raised. “What manner of deal?”  
  
She smiles and pats your hand—the broken one—and you let out a little hiss of pain. “All good things come with time, dear. First, why not tell me your name?”  
  
You are the Seer of Light. You have destroyed and remade the universe with your friends, met an alien race, and fallen in love with the troll equivalent of a vampire. You house eldritch horrors within the confines of your skull and have enough power sparking through your veins to destroy a planet.  
  
You smile at her, a dark and dangerous thing that have made lesser people cower before you.  
  
“My name is Rose.”


End file.
